


Tempered

by rosamynal, shoutz



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Extreme Thirst, F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:20:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24138769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosamynal/pseuds/rosamynal, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoutz/pseuds/shoutz
Summary: Tataru gestures to the motley crew surrounding her. “These are my dearest friends, I’ve brought them in search of a good night out. I do hope they won’t be disappointed with the entertainment this evening.”One of Emet-Selch’s hands propped itself on his chest, affronted though his eyes shone with a friendly smile. “Inmyestablishment? Nonsense. And certainly not tonight, either— not with the performance we have planned.”Petra looked up at the stage with a raised eyebrow and the others followed suit, unimpressed. Emet-Selch seemed to notice this and grinned at them. “Oh, he is but an appetizer for tonight’s main act.The Princeis scheduled to dance tonight.”“You say that with such gravity,” Y’shtola said, propping her chin with an elbow resting on the table’s surface. “I admit, I’m intrigued. Tell us more.”His grin widened, and he shrugged. “Oh, but I wouldn’t want to spoil it for you. Allow me to fetch you some drinks instead, to prepare for the evening we have in store.”
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Zenos yae Galvus/Warrior of Light
Comments: 14
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Song: [Paralyzed — Mystery Skulls](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pTxcJPyyz6c)

It was — _markedly_ — not Petra’s decision to go out tonight.

But Y’shtola insisted they needed a night to enjoy themselves, and Thancred and Urianger had nothing better to do, and Tataru knew of a good place. _Like nothing you’ve ever seen,_ she had said to Thancred’s unimpressed scoff and Urianger’s responding tut. But with nothing better to do that night, they were easily swayed.

So the five of them found themselves shutting the door of a disgruntled cab driver’s car outside the tallest building in the city, elegant sweeping architecture reaching towards the clear night sky. It stuck out like a ball gown in a college library, a marvel of design amidst what was otherwise a rather bland city — certainly not the most populated, but not necessarily a suburb either. The perfect place for a nightclub that looks far more like a futuristic, swanky department of motor vehicles.

Dressed to the nines and well beyond that, they all followed Tataru as she walked confidently past the line that wrapped well around the side of the building. The bouncer at the door eyed her as she approached, turning away the next couple in line to enter.

“Lahabrea! How good it is to see you again,” she said with a beaming smile. The sequins on her pink dress gleamed even in the light from the street lamps, as well as the jeweled clasp holding her hair back in a ponytail in lieu of her usual hat.

“Always a pleasure, Miss Taru,” he responded, leaning forward at the waist in a courteous bow. His long, light blond hair cascaded over either shoulder to cover the lapels of his fine suit, though Petra could see that it wouldn’t hinder him should he need to turn someone away with force instead of asking politely.

“Is there a table available for us tonight? My friends and I are in dire need of a night out.”

He looked them all over thoroughly, skeptically, and with good reason. Though they were not necessarily strangers to formal attire, they formed quite a motley crew around the drastically short woman leading them forth. Thancred and Urianger were modest enough in their suits, tailored specifically for the occasion at hand. Thancred had insisted the deep crimson brought out his eyes, while the dark navy was slimming on Urianger — but Y’shtola was quick to remind them that in the club’s low lighting, they would both look black regardless. That had also been the reasoning behind her simple black dress, floor-length and sleeveless, reaching its apex at her throat in a high neckline.

Petra, on the other hand, decided that in the face of all their darkness, she would be best served with a little light. Her white dress trailed just above the floor as well, detailed lace vines covering every inch, sheer everywhere save the torso and waist. The pattern continued down her long sleeves, letting bits of her dark skin peek through as a dashing contrast to the white. Where Y’shtola’s neckline rose, Petra’s plunged low, revealing just enough of her chest to pass for classy instead of provocative in a place like this. Her long burgundy hair cascaded over one shoulder in a way that she hoped looked more refined than lazy.

But, by some miracle, their rag-tag group seemed to pass his grueling examination. “Elidibus and Emet-Selch would have my head if I didn’t let you through, Miss Taru,” he said with a small smile, pushing the door behind him open. A low tune leaks through to spill out into the street, something with heavy bass and a steady beat. “Welcome to Tempered. Enjoy your night.”

For all its splendor on the outside, it paled in comparison to the inside. Chandeliers hung from high ceilings, casting a low glow over the walls that made the glass walls look like a starry nightscape. A bar spanned across the entire left wall, manned by a single dark-haired woman. Some well-placed lights illuminated clear paths through the tables, while small flickering lamps in the center of every table provided something more akin to actual lighting. But they were all far outshone by the spotlight illuminating the stage at the far end of the room, casting a red glow over the dancer currently performing.

He was… _underwhelming,_ to put it mildly. He didn’t look half-bad, of course — a relatively short Miqo’te who made up for his lack of sensuality with impressive flexibility and a pretty face. His red tail curled idly around the pole as he spun, contorting his body in ways that betrayed the strength hiding beneath his lithe form.

He didn’t hold Petra’s attention for long. A hostess led them to a free table, one near the front of the stage off to the left. Mere seconds after the hostess bid them enjoy their night, a man approached the table, wearing a fine black suit and a white streak in his hair that shouldn’t look as good as it does.

“Welcome to Tempered,” he said, and his voice carried quite well despite the thumping bass from the speakers just behind him. “When I was told we were hosting a very special guest here tonight, I thought they had been joking, but I can see now that I was _terribly_ mistaken. It is very good to see you again, Miss Taru.”

Tataru smiles and nods towards him, jovial. “I’ve told you, Emet-Selch, my friends call me Tataru. I’d like to believe we’re closer than that!”

He bowed forward at the waist, hair falling slightly in front of his eyes. “My apologies, Tataru.”

She gestures to the motley crew surrounding her. “These are my dearest friends, I’ve brought them in search of a good night out. I do hope they won’t be disappointed with the entertainment this evening.”

One of Emet-Selch’s hands propped itself on his chest, affronted though his eyes shone with a friendly smile. “In _my_ establishment? Nonsense. And certainly not tonight, either— not with the performance we have planned.”

Petra looked up at the stage with a raised eyebrow and the others followed suit, unimpressed. Emet-Selch seemed to notice this and grinned at them. “Oh, he is but an appetizer for tonight’s main act. _The Prince_ is scheduled to dance tonight.”

“You say that with such gravity,” Y’shtola said, propping her chin with an elbow resting on the table’s surface. “I admit, I’m intrigued. Tell us more.”

His grin widened, and he shrugged. “Oh, but I wouldn’t want to spoil it for you. Allow me to fetch you some drinks instead, to prepare for the evening we have in store for you.”

They all voiced their orders and he departed to place them. The music faded away and they clapped politely for the Miqo’te as he bowed and smiled at the crowd. He exited backstage and a quiet jazz tune crept into the atmosphere. The spotlight on stage faded and the chatter from the club’s patrons rose in a steady wave.

 _“The Prince,”_ Thancred scoffed, “What a ridiculous stage name. Was _Pompous Asshole_ already taken?”

“I find myself quite intrigued at the notion of royalty in an establishment such as this,” Urianger pondered, adjusting a sleeve cuff. “And besides, it is a marked improvement over _your_ —”

 _“Ahem.”_ Y’shtola stifled a chuckle at Thancred’s interruption. His cheeks grew bright red, barely visible beneath the low light. “Anyways. Establishments like these have certain reputations. Hopefully this _Prince_ will live up to your friend’s esteemed regard. And I hope even more that these drinks arrive before Urianger talks me into an early grave.”

“Nonsense,” Y’shtola said through another laugh, “Please, Urianger, _do_ enlighten us with whatever it is that Thancred would rather we not know.”

Thancred groaned and rested his head on the tabletop, resigned to his fate.

Lucky for him, though, Emet-Selch returned promptly with a tray of drinks to their individual tastes. Urianger kept mum as he nursed his glass of wine, much to Y’shtola, Tataru, and Petra’s dismay. Try as they might, they couldn’t get him to finish the thought, even after their drinks were half-drained and their tongues half-loose.

It didn’t take long for something else to distract them, though. Petra barely noticed as the jazz music faded into silence. The lights dimmed marginally, and with it dimmed the chatter from the crowd as if in subconscious acknowledgement. As conversations came to a polite end, the lights fell the rest of the way, until the whole club was nearly shrouded in darkness.

A single spotlight bloomed to life on the empty stage. All eyes, every last bit of attention all directed towards the stage at the simple shifts in atmosphere, signalling the start of something.

_The Prince._

It had to be. But was such grandeur and dramatism warranted? Would this dancer be all he’s been touted to be?

It seemed they did not have to wait long to find out. A resounding bass boomed low through the room, fading in from the silence as they watched on in suspense. A beat manifested beneath it, steady and fast, and then—

The main event took the stage.

He was easily six and a half fulms of muscle in what looked like a white military jacket and boots that came up to his calves, covering stockings that came to his upper thighs. His hair hung in long golden strands down to nearly the middle of his back, some of it hanging in front of his shoulders to obscure his pectorals. No pants save for a thong that seemed to almost struggle to keep him _contained—_

Petra’s gaze lingered there for longer than she would ever admit. Was she truly only one drink into the night?

She heard Y’shtola’s low whistle from beside her, impressed despite her prior reluctance to believe the fanfare around this dancer. Petra refused to look away, to see her other companions’ reactions to such a spectacle. All that mattered was _him._

In a few long-legged strides to the beat of the music, he came to a stop in front of the gleaming metal pole in the middle of the stage, back towards the crowd as the beat continued.

_When you’re over, I feel so nervous. And when we kiss, I can’t explain._

The vocals joined in over the bass and steady beat as The Prince swayed his hips to the beat, barely obscured beneath his coat. His hair moved in time with the rest of him— but none of that quite caught Petra’s attention over the sight slightly below it: pert ass barely concealed by a black thong over two incredibly muscular thighs.

Thighs Petra would kill to ride until—

Well.

She shifted in her seat, crossed one leg over the other.

_It’s superhuman, the truth is…_

The beat halted and the bass turned into a steady piano tune accompanying the vocals, and as it disappeared The Prince let his jacket slip off his shoulders, catching at his forearms before it fell the rest of the way to the floor. Petra fought her jaw as it threatened to fall slack, hiding her open gawking behind a well-timed sip of her too-strong drink. His _shoulders,_ by the gods, broad and muscular even concealed by a skintight black top that covered his arms, coming to a halt just below his shoulder blades. The rest was obscured by hair that reached just above the small of his back, though what she could see of it looked absolutely _enticing._

_You’ve got me hypnotized, I’m feeling so obsessed with you…_

He kicked the coat off to the side of the stage and spun around to face his waiting audience, leaning his back against the pole while his hips jutted forward to sway back and forth. His eyes were a bright, striking blue, visible even from the audience though Petra and her quickly forgotten company sat relatively close to the stage. His expression was almost…dismissive. He merely stared out at the crowd, gaze half-lidded, smirk slightly lifting a corner of his lips.

Petra couldn’t take her eyes off him if she tried.

_You’ve left me paralyzed, and now I’m stuck._

_You’ve got me stuck._

The beat jumped back in and he _moved_ with it, wrapping a leg around the pole and spinning. Both hands rose to take the pole and he brought both his legs into the air as he spun, a feat of core strength that made his abs strain and clench, pronounced beneath the stark lighting of the spotlight. And he didn’t so much as break a _sweat._

His legs swung up and he braced them around the pole, holding himself aloft upside-down before bracing his arms against the pole once more for a more controlled descent on the opposite side. He worked the pole over with an ease that bordered on boredom, somehow, exerting this skill in his craft that Petra would consider _perfection_ as if he were doing something so simple as folding laundry— yet with none of the blandness of such a mundane act.

Petra’s mouth went dry. She took another drink.

She heard Thancred and Urianger chatting in the background, but she had no attention to pay to their words. The man who brought their drinks had returned and struck up a conversation with Tataru, but it was all noise. Even the music that nearly shook the tables and drinks resting upon them was like static, an afterthought. All that existed was _him._

His hips thrust rhythmically as he spun, contorting his muscular body around the pole with ease. The muscles in his arms strained as he held himself aloft, swinging his legs over, a spectacle that held Petra in a trance.

Eventually he rested aloft against the pole, one leg propping him upright while the other hooked around the pole, leaving his hands free as he spun in one slow rotation. He used his newfound dexterity to pull the tight top over his head, slow, painstaking, exposing the rest of his chest and arms to the light by ilms. The Prince flung the shirt to the side to sit with the jacket and Petra took the pause to truly appreciate what had been partially covered before. The strength hiding beneath his shoulders, his arms, his broad chest all on proud display as he spun to face the excited audience once more.

Petra downed the rest of her drink.

“I…suppose I’ll fetch another,” she heard from the man talking to Tataru behind her— _what was his name again?_ Did it even matter?

The answer was a resounding _no_ as she watched The Prince play out the rest of the song, with nearly his entire body on display now as he danced and worked. Now unobscured for all to see, Petra watched his back and shoulders flex and strain as they held his weight aloft. It didn’t take long for her empty glass to be replaced with a new drink, one she was quick to pick up and sip as her thirst grew more apparent. 

She watched, transfixed, not so much as blinking for fear of missing one moment of his performance. And oh, what a _sight_ it was to behold. She made a mental note to thank Tataru later, or Y’shtola, or whoever had the marvelous idea to come to Tempered for their night’s entertainment. A note quickly forgotten as she watched his thighs clench around the pole _just so._

He spun a few more times holding his position, winding down before landing on the stage in an impressive split timed with the very last beat.

The audience ruptured in applause, an ovation, clearly impressed by Tempered’s starring act. The Prince rose upright in no rush, scanning the crowd idly as they continued to praise him. It didn’t seem to matter to him; he only regarded them with the same bored stare, bordering on apathy. His piercing blue eyes scanned the room, regarding the club’s patrons from left to right, until his eyes found—

_Hers._

She stared, mouth nearly agape as his gaze lingered on her. A brief moment, a spark crackling between them, nearly tangible despite the distance between them, his eyes sending levin heat to her core. She fights the notion that she only imagined the boredom disappearing—just a brief moment—as he regarded her with something more akin to interest. Right? It had to be, more than a simple moment suspended in time, more than her imagination—

The corner of his lips twitched upwards. Unmistakable beneath the spotlight.

He _smirked._

Just as quickly as his gaze had found her, though, it wandered elsewhere. Petra let out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding, trying to memorize the feeling of being trapped beneath his stare for those few blissful seconds.

Or trapped beneath _other_ parts of him.

The applause faded as he strode off the stage, without so much as a bow or a wave towards his adoring crowd. A stage hand came to fetch his discarded clothes. The lights rose to a more normal level as the spotlight faded. Jazz returned to fill the air between conversations.

Petra finished the last of her second drink in a few short sips. She turned to look at Tataru and the man, Emet-Selch, who were already watching her with interest that skirted the lines of confusion, of bewilderment.

“Tell me what you know about him.”


	2. Chapter 2

Everything had begun innocently enough. 

Well, he _said_ “innocently”, but Zenos had essentially left his home and country to become a stripper. His father decidedly did not approve. Then again, his father rarely approved of anything he did—if the old man even took notice in the first place. For the briefest of moments, Zenos wondered how long it had taken his father to realize he had left home. 

One second later, he realized… he didn’t _care_.

Of course, the sole exception was...

“I am not Elidibus. I will not play emissary between you and your father,” the older brunet griped, holding his phone up so Zenos could see the name written across the screen. “Answer it.”

Zenos didn’t bother to look up from his lunch of a simple sandwich and salad. 

“No.”

Tempered was a different place during the day. The heavy violet curtains covering the tall windows at night were pulled back to let in the sunlight. The floor was a forest of wooden legs pointing up from where the chairs had been flipped onto tables, waiting for the afternoon preparations. 

Silence reigned in the club while the sun was up; a welcome reprieve from the constant music at night. It was broken only by the clink of glasses as Igeyorhm cleaned and restocked her bar or the chatter of the other dancers. At the moment, however, the silence was being shattered by the waltz punctuated with rhythmic buzzing that came from Emet-Selch’s phone. Said electronic was shoved further into the blond’s face. He leaned away from it, arching over the back of the small chair.

Zenos sat alone at one of the tables—as was his habit. The day was devoted to rehearsals, being the sole day out of the week where the club was closed. Of course, they opened the doors at midnight since it was _technically_ a new day. Evidently the politician who tried to protest against their workaround soon found himself caught in bed with two Miqo’te girls. The only thing Elidibus, the club’s owner, had to say was that it was a shame the man had never bothered to frequent Tempered and simply _watch_ the girls instead of going to such lengths. 

Since the tall man only planned to rehearse his routine for the week, he was still dressed in simple clothes that he would change out of after eating: a long-sleeved, black shirt, an old pair of jeans, and comfortable shoes. Everything was tight; it was a given, considering his height and mass. He normally rehearsed alone as well considering the other dancers typically avoided the too-tall foreigner and eyed him with suspicion. On the rare occasion that one would address him, it was by the stage name given to him by Emet-Selch. 

“You can’t ignore him forever, Zenos.”

Said man was also one of the few to use his actual name. No one questioned how the club’s manager knew Zenos or his father. They were countrymen—that much was obvious—and since the man had insisted so strongly that Zenos be hired, everyone assumed they must be old acquaintances.

“I know exactly why he’s calling. I don’t need to answer it.”

Emet-Selch quirked an eyebrow at the drawled response. The brunet countered with one of his own.

“Do you now?”

With a resigned sigh, Zenos took a bite out of his sandwich and leaned over to pull his cell phone out from the back pocket of his tight jeans. Tied into a high ponytail, the ends of his long hair grazed the tabletop before whipping back over his shoulder when he brought the phone up to his face. A few pokes unlocked the screen to reveal the top lined with notifications of missed calls, voicemails, and texts—all from one contact. He opened the messenger app and flipped the phone over so the older man could see.

Emet-Selch's phone fell silent. His white lock of hair fell forward as he leaned in to carefully swipe upwards on the screen, pale yellow eyes skimming the messages. His eyebrows slowly hiked up his forehead as his finger kept going and his jaw dropped. Zenos silently turned off the screen before tucking the phone back into his pocket. He held the other man’s gaze as he took another bite from his sandwich. A faint smirk curled one corner of his lips, silently lording the victory over his elder. 

The waltz returned along with its 3/4 vibrating beat. Emet-Selch glanced at his screen for a split second before swiping with his thumb, pressing a button, and turning it around to face Zenos. Half a moment passed and his father’s eternally scowling face appeared on the small screen. 

The blond stopped short of glaring at the image. Instead, he swallowed what annoyance welled up within him and glanced at Emet-Selch. He set aside his half-eaten sandwich while taking the phone with his other hand. He leaned close to the brunet’s ear as he stood to take the call outside the club.

“This is why he shot you,” he whispered, ignoring the shouts blaring from the phone.

“Among other reasons. Try to finish the call by the end of lunch; we need to talk about your scheduling this week,” Emet-Selch replied coolly. “And if you throw my phone into the sewer _again_ , the replacement is coming out of your paycheck.”

He bit back another surge of irritation as he walked out with the phone in hand.

Zenos leaned over the vanity, peering at his reflection in the mirror as he applied that night’s makeup to his lips and eyes. Lights caught and reflected off the gemstones and thin, gold chains sewn into the sheer jacket covering his arms and torso. They gleamed and tinkled with every movement. 

_“What do you mean I have to work every night this week?” Zenos demanded._

_“And every night for the foreseeable future,” Emet-Selch corrected._

_“Are you not aware of how much money you bring in?” Elidibus countered, ignoring the_ _question. “Did you really think we wouldn’t take advantage of your popularity?”_

_“Besides, money for us means money for_ **_you_ ** _,” Emet-Selch smirked. “Remember?”_

_Neither Elidibus nor Emet-Selch were willing to give a concrete explanation as to the sudden change in his schedule. The other dancers hated their hours being cut, leading to arguments with the stoic owner and the more expressive manager. The latter finally put his foot down and challenged them to bring in even a quarter as much as Zenos._

_They held their tongues, after that._

The blond straightened up to observe his work. It was the last night of the week and the other dancers in the green room were talking about what they planned to do with their day off. He ignored them like he always did. Nabriales entered to hurry everyone out for a short meeting—except Zenos. There was only one person in Tempered that Zenos actually paid any mind to. The other dancers filed out of the room, leaving him to make any remaining adjustments to his outfit. 

_Zenos stared at the straps of black fabric that the older man claimed composed a costume. They would apparently cross over his chest and wrap down his arms. The now-familiar black thong was the only solid piece. His legs and feet would remain bare._

_“This is what you’ll wear this week. There’s another sheer layer that goes over it,”_ _Emet-Selch added. “The straps will come off easily during your act.”_

Like every other night, someone came to fetch Zenos when it was his turn on the stage. He followed the woman out with a soft clinking of chains. As he waited in the wings, he idly wondered if _she_ would be there again. She should be… at least if the pattern held true. 

_It had been nothing more than a polite turn of his lips. A suggestion from Emet-Selch that he lock eyes with a member of the audience and engage them with a flirtatious smirk. The Viera had caught his eye thanks to her white dress standing out so starkly in the darkness and through the glare of the stage lights. Imagine his surprise when she turned up the next night, and the one after that, and the one after_ **_that_ ** _._

When his music started, Zenos snapped to attention. He walked out with his head held high to a roar of applause, cheers, and whistles. He acknowledged none of it. If only his father could see him now, surrounded by what he deemed were _savages_ —and serving as their entertainment. The scowl might snap his face in half. 

As he approached the edge of the stage, his gaze fell on a familiar sight. _She_ was sitting at her usual table—close enough for a good view, but far enough that she wouldn’t strain her neck—drink forgotten in front of her and both elbows propped on the table to support her head. The Viera had watched him—neither blinking nor moving—throughout each of his performances that week. Tonight was no different.

_It was the third night in which his latest admirer showed up to watch him dance. Zenos finally took note that the woman’s ruby gaze was fixated on_ **_him_ ** _alone. Understandable, considering he was the sole act currently on stage—but her eyes tugged at his attention more than the others. It was as if he was all that mattered to her at the moment, although surely…_

_Hm. He would have to test it._

_At the end of his performance, he met her eyes once more. She froze; her long, burgundy ears stiffened over her head. Even her breathing seemed to have stopped. Her eyes were the only part of her that moved, darting across his body. They lingered a beat too long on his crotch before darting back up to his face. She reflexively bit her lower lip._

Zenos lifted both arms in time with the start of the main hook in the song. The stage lights illuminated him with a dazzling gleam, thanks to the gems in his costume. The audience erupted with fresh applause as he spun on one heel and grasped the pole before leaning into the space beside it, momentum drawing him into a slow spin. Just as his feet were about to tangle up at the bottom, he braced his other hand lower on the pole and pushed off the ground.

His lower half vaulted upwards, renewing his momentum; he hooked both legs around the pole as he spun upside down. Zenos let go with his hands and twisted around, displaying his chest to the audience. He easily found his admirer—the sole person not applauding, but simply _watching_.

_Zenos realized he… Well... He_ **_enjoyed_ ** _the thought that someone..._

_On a whim, he dipped into a low bow in her direction. The catcalls and whistles increased in volume around him, but he glanced up to check the reaction of a particular customer. There was a moment’s delay before she perked up in her seat with wide eyes. With a quick but_ **_genuine_ ** _smirk at her, he turned on his heel and walked off stage._

Zenos removed the sheer jacket to thunderous applause and deafening cheers. He held the thin fabric by two fingers and let it drag on the floor for one rotation before throwing it in her general direction. With a flex of his core, he rolled up to grab the pole with his hands. A disengaging kick and wide swing of his legs gave him the momentum he needed for a few more spins. 

Curling one arm around the pole and bracing the sole of one foot against it was enough to slow him down so his free hand could undo one of the straps. A drunken, shrill call cheered him on; he didn’t bother to check the source, knowing it wasn’t his admirer; she didn’t seem the type to interrupt his focus. Once the strap was free of his chest and arm, he flung it to join the first discarded garment.

His act continued. Strip by strip, he revealed more of his chest and arms as the pile of fabric at the edge of the stage grew incrementally larger. Whenever he slowed, a sweep of his legs or a quick shift of position gave him just enough momentum to remove another ribbon of black fabric. 

The music track was nearing the end by the time the last strip flew through the air to land with the others. Zenos climbed to the top of the pole using only his arms. Upon reaching the top, he swung outwards one last time, sending him on a slow spin as he slid down. He braced himself with one leg wrapped around the rod and let go with his hands. 

His long hair mirrored his sudden drop, streaming after him. Zenos caught himself just before his face hit the ground and tightened the hold he had on the pole with his leg and thighs. It turned the already slow spin into a lazy one as the music wound down. His hair trailed after him, tracing a golden spiral on the ground beneath the pole.

He finally came to a stop—and touched the ground for the first time since beginning his act—when he curled his arm to cradle his head while his ribs rested against the cool floor of the stage. A roar of applause exploded from the darkness beyond the stage lights as Zenos held the pose for a few moments. His gaze drifted to where he could _just_ see his admirer watching him from her table. Like every night, he caught her eyes devouring his form. When he felt enough time had passed, he allowed his legs to slide down the pole and grasped it with both hands to pull himself upright. 

Once his feet were beneath him, Zenos stood to face the cheering audience. To his surprise, he caught sight of Emet-Selch weaving a path through the tables until he reached _her_. A gloved hand to her shoulder and a few whispered words pulled his admirer’s attention from Zenos to the older man. Curiosity sparked, he watched just long enough to determine Emet-Selch was leading her to the bar before walking off stage.

Backstage, Zenos made his way to the dressing room. He ignored the other dancers and headed straight to the clothes rack to fetch his street clothes. With them in hand, he continued to the restroom where he washed his face of the makeup he had so carefully applied and changed into something more appropriate for the cab ride home. Afterwards, he returned to the vanity mirror assigned to him and carefully removed the more stubborn makeup around his eyes. 

By the time he was ready to leave, the bartender had already shouted “last call”. Soft jazz music whispered through the air while patrons trickled out of the front door, nodding to Lahabrea or exchanging a few words with the bouncer. As Zenos walked past Igeyorhm’s bar, he noticed Emet-Selch sitting sideways on a barstool with his legs crossed and a glass of red wine sitting in front of him; his gloves were neatly folded by his elbow. Two seats down on his right sat his admirer; a glass of some frozen beverage had been placed in front of her as she slightly swayed.

Igeyorhm waved to him as he approached the bar on his way to the door. Before he could turn down her usual offer of a drink before he left, the redhead twisted in place to see who she had flagged down, and in the process, slipped off the barstool just as he reached them. She squeaked in surprise—confirming to Zenos that she had, in fact, _not_ meant to do that—and fell directly into him. 

Her ears reflexively twitched as they brushed against his chin, but he quickly became aware of the two hands framing his chest and their small, brief gropes. As he let out a tired sigh upon realizing the woman was drunk, she swayed and tilted her head back to look at his face. Her ruby eyes narrowed as if trying to place where she had seen him before. After a moment—wherein one of her hands continued to absentmindedly fondle his pecs—she pointed an accusatory finger up at him. 

“Y- _you_ … you’re m’ _prince…_ ” she slurred.

Zenos blinked down at her in an attempt to understand her observation. He had to admit he had never made anyone’s acquaintance in such a way—then again, he hadn’t done a great many things before leaving his country.

"Zenos will do,” he replied.

She nodded with a higher-pitched hum than he had thought possible. It cemented the notion that she was _definitely_ drunk.

“Zenos…” she noted with another decisive nod, hanging onto the last consonant of his name for dear life as she slurred. Her gaze slowly wandered back down to his chest—which stood at her eye level. She giggled before nuzzling her cheek against the shirt covering him. “ _Ziddies_ …”

Another sigh parted his lips. Zenos turned his attention to Emet-Selch and then Igeyorhm. Upon reaching the latter, it hardened into an accusatory glare.

“I thought you were supposed to cut them off before they reached this point.”

“I thought she could handle more,” the bartender countered with a dismissive shrug.

“Perhaps the girl should be more aware of her _own_ limits,” Emet-Selch added, taking a sip of wine. “Why not fetch her a cab? Imagine how bad it would look for us if the young woman was seen leaving Tempered in such a sorry state and not arrive home safely.”

Zenos glared at him, recognizing the “suggestion” for what it truly was—a command. His pale golden gaze calmly regarded Zenos as he set his glass back down on the bar. After a moment, the blond let out an annoyed scoff before helping the woman back into her seat. He held his hand out towards Igeyorhm.

“Let me see her ID so I can tell her cab driver where to go.”

Igeyorhm raised an eyebrow at him. Instead of moving, she looked over to Emet-Selch as if to pose a silent question. He shrugged while Zenos’ drunk admirer leaned into his chest with what sounded like a wistful sigh.

“I don’t see why not. You might as well close her tab while you’re at it.”

The bartender nodded and fetched the woman’s ID and card from the locked drawer beneath the register. With an ease born of habit, Igeyorhm swiped the card and tore the receipt free of the dispenser. She glanced at the ID on her way back to the two men while pulling a pen from the pocket of her vest. Her face lit up in recognition.

“Wait, isn't this just down the street from you?"

He plucked the ID from her hands to take a better look. Indeed, she lived about two blocks down from his apartment building and her name was Petra. Zenos briefly wondered if they had ever crossed paths before he noticed her in the audience. The soft rattle of peanuts being poured out of a container made him glance over at Emet-Selch. The brunet set the jar back on the counter as he herded the spiced legumes into the center of a black napkin—printed with the club’s name in stylish, violet lettering—so they wouldn’t roll onto the countertop. 

“If it is, then why not carpool with her?” he suggested, not looking up from his task. “It would cut down on your fare and ensure her safe arrival.”

Zenos glared at the man's two-toned hair. When seconds passed without a response, Emet-Selch looked up and popped a few peanuts into his mouth. They stared at each other as the older man chewed and Zenos' admirer traced the contours of his muscles through his shirt. After a few more seconds passed in silence, the other Garlean splayed out his hands in a silent demand.

"Well? Snap to it, boy," he finally said. "The sooner you get her out of here, the less likely she is to empty her stomach on our floors."

Igeyorhm quietly got the woman’s attention and convinced her to sign the receipt while Zenos did his best not to let the older man get under his skin. He had managed to prevent his father from doing so his entire life, he certainly wasn’t about to let _Emet-Selch_ do so now. 

He waited for her to finish scribbling her name across the lower half of the receipt before gently tapping her shoulder. She sprang to attention, ears darting upright until she noticed it was him; she immediately relaxed and leaned against him, letting her long ears fall lax. Her fingers tangled themselves with what little give his shirt had. 

“Petra?” he called hesitantly. She slowly lifted her gaze to watch him, eyes glimmering with all the attentiveness she could muster in her drunken state. “Let’s get you home.”

The high-pitched hum returned. The woman wrapped her arms around him, squishing herself against his chest as she nuzzled him anew.

“Carry me, _mmm’_ prince,” she demanded, once again drawing out the sibilant syllable.

His brow furrowed together while Emet-Selch’s amused snort pulled his attention back to the brunet. Igeyorhm had wisely retreated to the far side of the bar, leaving them alone with his drunken admirer. The older man smirked into his wine glass.

“Well, Your Highness? Would you deny a lady in such a state?”

Not deigning to respond, Zenos easily swept the woman up in his arms. She let out a squeal, kicking her high-heeled feet in glee before settling into his hold. As he carried her out of the building, Emet-Selch called out a reminder that he should return just after lunch for his costume fitting.

A cab was already waiting when Zenos carried her past Lahabrea. He cast a curious glance at the blond bouncer—who in turn nodded to the opposite side of the door. There, Zenos found Elidibus wearing his typical white suit and leaning against the wall with a nearly finished cigarette in hand. The tip glowed orange as he took a drag and exhaled the smoke away from them.

“I thought it prudent,” Elidibus explained simply. “Good night, sweet Prince.” 

The bald man puffed once more on his cigarette—drawing it down to the filter—before dropping it to crush beneath his heel. Without another glance at the others, Elidibus vanished into his establishment. Zenos took it as his cue to leave and continued to the waiting cab after nodding to Lahabrea.

One cab ride later—during which Petra refused to leave his lap or unwrap her arms from around his neck—Zenos found himself standing in front of a quaint apartment building that he passed on his way to work every day. The woman in his arms hummed to herself as she dug around in her little handbag. A tube of lipstick tumbled out along with her cellphone. Zenos managed to catch the latter and scooped the former off the ground while she triumphantly held up her keys. 

Her feet futilely kicked and she stretched in an attempt to press the fob against the black panel by the door so they could enter. Zenos helped, closing the distance in a few steps. A sharp _click_ and Zenos was able to push the door open and enter the foyer. Automatic lights responded to his presence and lit up the small room where mailboxes lined one wall and a set of stairs at the end invited him to go upwards.

“Which floor?” he asked, beginning his ascent. 

He stopped at the floor she told him and stood between the two doors on the landing. She wriggled towards the one with a wreath and a welcome mat. Taking that to mean it was her apartment, Zenos set her on the ground. The Viera teetered and tottered over to her door. After a few attempts, she managed to slide the key in with a satisfying _scrape_. The door opened and she tumbled inwards, leaving Zenos to sigh once more at her antics.

He carefully helped the woman to her feet while gingerly running his hand along the wall next to the front door to find a lightswitch. The small apartment lit up as she stumbled her way to the nearby sofa—and promptly fell over the armrest onto the seat itself. A moment later, Zenos heard her muffled snores from where he still stood in the doorway.

He couldn’t help smiling to himself in his newfound privacy. He had to admit, she made a cute drunk. Knowing perfectly well what awaited her in the morning—or at least whenever she woke up—Zenos slipped into the kitchen to his left and filled a clean glass with water. He set it on the coffee table along with her cell phone before rearranging the woman so she was fully laying on the sofa instead of bent over the armrest.

Satisfied, Zenos walked out, closed the door, and left the apartment building so he could finally head home.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Petra stared groggily into the mirror with perhaps the worst hangover she’s had since she lived in Ul’dah. Her phone’s horrid alarm tone had woken her up with enough of a start to make her flail off the couch — how did she get  _ there? _ — and fall onto the floor with a thud. Not the best way to wake up. Luckily, Drunk Petra had seemingly been lucid enough to make the morning a bit easier with some painkillers and a tall glass of water nearby. A few minutes of dragging herself through her apartment saw her somewhat prepared for the day ahead.

Once she was able to think beyond her morning routine, past her throbbing headache, she discovered a select few gaps in her memory from the night before. Everything had faded into a blur after The Prince’s performance, though she was fortunate enough to remember  _ that _ in favorable detail. It was enough to carry her through her commute to work: his dance,  _ again, _ and those eyes as they found her own once more. That  _ smirk. _ Not to mention… Well, everything else.

The door to The Waking Cup opened with a chime as she entered. Her manager, Hythlodaeus, waved his greeting from behind the cash register as he helped a customer. She gave him her most convincing  _ no, I promise I’m not hungover _ smile and hurried to the back room to fetch her apron and clock in.

The haze began to subside once she fell back into the monotony of work. Make the drink, call the name, clean the counter. Repeat ad infinitum. With Hythlodaeus there to cut the silence with cheerful conversation and the constant thrum of customers as they cycled through the shop, another day was sure to come and go with ease.

Until Hythlodaeus placed an online order next in the queue: one large, half-soy, half-skim, iced dark roast with no whip, extra ice, two pumps of simple syrup, and two espresso shots.

Petra sighed and set to work.

A few minutes passed and the drink was made in all its complex glory. She walked it over to the counter and squinted at the label, before calling out the name.

“…Zenis?”

A pause. She blinked and held the cup closer, trying to see if she misread, but…

“Zenos, actually. My apologies.”

She looked up at the low voice, and stared. And stared. Mouth agape, she took in the sight: long blond hair tied back in a high ponytail, muscle tank top hanging loosely over broad shoulders, red shorts showing off impeccable legs, with a gym bag clutched in one hand as the other reached out towards her. The smile on his lips was warm but his light blue eyes were narrowed in a way that said he knew something she didn’t, and that he was quite  _ pleased  _ by that.

_ The Prince. _

The cup fell from her grasp to explode in a mess upon the tile.

“So sorry about that!” Hythlodaeus’ voice sounded over her shoulder, but she was still frozen in place. Staring at The Prince— no,  _ Zenos. _ She knew his name. She knew what he looked like beneath something other than a spotlight, without the pomp and glamor of a performance upon his visage.

Even post-workout, he was the most gorgeous thing she had ever seen.

Hythlodaeus scribbled out a new order onto a new cup and shoved it into Petra’s still-open but now-empty hand. His corresponding pat on her opposite shoulder was enough to snap her out of her reverie; she fought the heat in her cheeks and mumbled an apology before rushing off to remake his drink.

A few  _ more _ minutes of drink-making passed while Hythlodaeus cleaned the mess from the tile. Luckily it was during a lull in the shop’s traffic: not quite breakfast, but still too early for lunch, so there weren’t many other customers demanding their attention. Once finished, she took the new cup over to the counter.

“I’m really sorry about that,” she said as she set the cup on the counter, “Zen _ os.” _

He smiled, pleasant, and Petra was glad she had already set the cup down before he did so. “Not a problem at all, Petra.” She startled at his use of her name, which made him chuckle softly. He pointed at his pectoral, and it took her a few solid seconds of ogling his muscled chest before she realized he was pointing to where her name tag was pinned to her apron. “It’s only fair. You know  _ my _ name, and I know yours.”

Petra blinked a few times, stunned, before smiling and nodding.

Zenos chuckled again, and Petra felt her heart do a backflip. He grabbed his drink and took a long sip and Petra resisted the urge to watch his throat bob as he did so. “Mm. Perfect.” He hiked his bag onto his shoulder and — he  _ winked _ at her. “See you tomorrow.”

She stared as he left, trying not to be so overt as she checked out his ass— with  _ JUICY _ written across the back of his shorts. With just a small glance back at her, he pushed the door open and took his leave.

Petra stood in place for a long moment as her brain tried to process exactly what just happened to her. She didn’t snap out of it until Hythlodaeus came behind her with another pat to her shoulder and another laugh. “Take a break. I’ll manage.”

Her feet carried her to the back room. Once the door shut she leaned against it, sliding down to sit on the floor. The Prince— no,  _ Zenos _ actually, despite having one of the most infuriating coffee orders in the history of The Waking Cup, had actually talked to her.  _ Smiled, _ even, despite the fact that she had ruined his first drink and made him wait even longer for another. He knew her name. He  _ winked. _

It took several minutes of blushing and recounting every second of their encounter in sequence before she was able to come back to herself. She went back out to find the line cleared, store barren save for the few people drinking at tables or in lounge chairs. Hythlodaeus was standing by one of the sinks, talking into his phone, though he smiled at Petra as she emerged and seemed to end the conversation.

But then she looked over at the counter, where Zenos had just been standing, and her heart stuttered in her chest.

Oh, she was a  _ goner. _

The rest of the week passed in much a similar fashion. Zenos came in at roughly the same time with the same online order, only to receive it post-workout with a stunning smile and a generous tip left in the cup by the register. Each of those nights she made her way to Tempered to see The Prince perform, though she didn’t deign to drink as much as she had before. Every night his eyes sought her out, and bade her farewell as he walked off the stage. An acknowledgement, perhaps, that they were in the process of becoming each other’s regulars, but to what end? Did he harbor the same infatuation for her as she did for him?

The talks they shared at The Waking Cup were mostly idle, surface-level: weather, current events, nothing overly presumptive. Skirting around each other, hoping the other would take the hint. But that someone like  _ him _ would feel that way towards someone like  _ her…  _ The thought was inconceivable, until their usual idle chatter took a different turn a few days later.

“So,” he began as he took his cup, “there is no performance at Tempered tonight.”

Petra knew this. Of course she knew this. She had imported the club’s calendar in her phone that very first night she went with the others. She glanced at the register, at the rest of the patrons in the shop as they sat idle. Her manager was nowhere to be found.

She leaned against the counter and grinned at Zenos. “Oh? And does its star performer have any other plans?”

He grinned back over the top of his cup. “Not yet. But hopefully.”

_ Hopefully? _

Petra flushed hot beneath her apron. “Well if you find yourself wanting company, I may know a nice place to have dinner.”

His grin sharpened. “Did you just ask me on a date?”

“Depends,” she said, praying that this newfound confidence would stick around just a bit longer, “will you say yes?”

He paused to sip his drink, but didn't take his eyes from hers. The suspense was almost too much for her, until he licked the excess coffee from his lips and parted them to speak.

“I don’t see why not.” He plucked a napkin from one of the dispensers and a pen from the side pocket of his bag, before starting to scribble on it.

_ “Actually,” _ Hythlodaeus’ voice sounded from behind Petra and she jumped, thankful that there was nothing in her hands to drop, “Petra’s shift ends in just a few minutes if you’d be so kind as to walk her home. Shouldn’t be too far, no?”

“It’s—” she started, confused, but Hythlodaeus turned to her with a smile.

“I can handle things here until the next shift arrives. Go on, you’ve worked hard today.”’

Petra blinked at him owlishly. When she looked at Zenos his eyebrows rose, a grin still twisting the corner of his lips upwards. He shifted his weight onto one hip and took a sip of his drink, seemingly content to wait.

Without another word, she turned and darted towards the back room.

A few minutes later found them on their way to Petra’s apartment complex. Zenos’ drink was halfway drained, Petra’s apron was shed, and the gentle breeze that blew between them made the sunny day slightly more bearable.

And it made Petra slightly less sweaty from her nerves.

“Do you have a preference for dinner tonight?” Zenos asked after a fashion.

In all honesty, she hadn’t thought that far ahead quite yet. It was a surprise to even have talked to him so much, much less to be walking home with him with a date planned later that night.

A  _ date. _

“Well, a friend of mine has some…connections,” she said. “We’re not entirely sure how she came by them. But I can see if she can get us a table somewhere nice?”

His eyebrows raised in mild surprise, bordering on amusement. Zenos led them down a different street, a shortcut between two high rises that Petra only ever took when it rained. “Oh? Well in that case, I’ll let you make the plans. How about the attire?”

Petra smirked. “Dress to impress.” She stopped in front of the stairs leading to her apartment complex. “Pick me up here at seven.”

Zenos returned her smirk with one of his own, and it was nearly too much for her to handle. “A date, then. I’ll see you at seven.” With that, he turned and walked down the street. Petra watched until he disappeared around a corner, and continued up the stairs to her apartment. 

It wasn’t until Petra was safely inside that she let herself fully understand what happened.

She was going on a date. With The Prince. With  _ Zenos. _ She had to repeat it out loud before she could truly internalize it.

With her door closed and locked, she leaned against it and slid to sit on the floor. 

_ Zenos. _

She pulled out her phone and dialed Tataru’s number, hoping to the Twelve she could get them a table somewhere that will live up to the expectation she made for herself.

* * *

A few hours later she was dressed in her best outfit that she hadn’t already worn to Tempered: a deep maroon gown to match her hair, sleeveless, cut into two pieces at the midriff to just barely show skin. Her hair perfectly styled, washed of the workday’s grime along with the rest of her. A glance in the mirror told her she was dressed to impress and then some.

Like clockwork, once seven o’clock hits, her phone buzzes with a new text from the number she had saved to her phone on the walk home from work.

_ Out front. Put your hair up. _

She paused at the odd request, but it was nothing to tie her hair back before grabbing her bag and heading out for the night.

The sun was just barely in the process of sinking below the horizon as she stepped out into the temperate night. Just down the steps parked next to the sidewalk was Zenos, leaning against the passenger side door of a sleek black sports car, convertible top down to show a lavish interior. Zenos did, indeed, dress to impress: dark gray button-up tucked into black slacks that fit entirely too well, long golden hair pulled back into a bun not unlike her own. The grin on his lips was tantalizing and she just wanted to—

“Hello again,” he said as she approached. “It seems you weren't lying when you said ‘dress to impress.’” His eyes roved her form as she approached and she tried not to preen too obviously beneath his attention. 

“You don’t look bad yourself,” she replied, “I wasn’t expecting you to clean up so well.”

He shrugged and Petra looked pointedly away from the way the fabric stretched against his shoulders. “I could say the same of you. But it seems we’re both in the business of exceeding each other’s expectations.” He pushed off the side of the car and opened the passenger door. “Shall we?”

The restaurant Tataru recommended wasn’t truly far enough to warrant driving, but Petra was not about to pass up an opportunity to ride in one of the most extravagant cars she has ever seen with the most attractive man she has ever been with. Once they arrived and the valet took the car to park, the hostess escorted them to a quiet table lit dimly by a candle and the seating area's ambient lighting.

“We’ve skipped quite far,” Zenos commented once their drink orders arrived. Petra was in the process of fixing her hair back into place from the bun in which it had been pulled back for the ride there. “Typically couples choose somewhere more…quaint, for a first date.”

Petra smirked. “What, like a coffee shop? Maybe a ritzy strip club?” Zenos chuckled over the lip of his wine glass before taking a sip and she tried to ignore the way it made her heart flip, the way it made her want to make him laugh again and again. “I figured a restaurant would be a fair middle ground. For the both of us. All the better if it’s a particularly  _ nice  _ place.”

His eyes wandered the restaurant, a seemingly pleased grin at the corner of his lips. “You may have a point. I so rarely treat myself to restaurants this nice. And much better to have such lovely company as I do.”

Petra fought valiantly against the heat rising to her cheeks at that, tried her best not to devolve into something embarrassing or regretful at the praise.

They conversed through the night in comfortable candor, enjoying each other’s company and the lavish food. Over time Petra felt less and less like her heart was going to burst from her chest at his pale gaze on hers, less and less like she was a fan of his work but instead a friend. A  _ date. _ She only felt herself drawn closer to him with each passing moment, and even still once their bill was paid and the valet was called.

“This has been such a good night,” she sighed as his car pulled in front of the restaurant. A chilly night breeze blew through the street and she huddled closer to Zenos’ large frame.

“Why does it have to end now?” he countered with a gentle hand on the small of her back.  _ Gods _ he was warm. She looked up to see his lips turn up into a wry grin as he exchanged his keys for a generous tip.

He leaned in front of her to open the passenger side door, close enough that she could feel the warmth of the rest of him. His voice was low and enticing when he murmured, “Let me take you home.”

She stared in disbelief for one long, vulnerable moment, mouth agape. He held her gaze with his own and suddenly home was nowhere near close enough.

“Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> listen to me. listen. let us take you on this journey. we will be your humble guides into hell
> 
> we have what you need over at [the book club](https://discord.gg/X6NJJAb)


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